


Surprises

by hegemony



Category: Django Unchained (2012)
Genre: F/M, Foreign Language, Guns, Knives, Off-screen Character Death, Public Sex, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wears her little quiet smile when it's just the two of them more often, now. Like she's content with this new life she's settling into, even when they have to pretend to be heartless, even when they have to kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surprises

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle, under the pairing Django/Broomhilda and prompts 'After, Prairie, Arms, and Troublemaker" 
> 
> Spoilers up through the end of Django Unchained.

“Guten Morgen, Django,” she says. 

He missed this, her. He's still in disbelief that he's allowed to have it, now. 

“Guten Tag, Broomhilda,” he answers. 

Her head raises a little, “goot-en.” 

“Guten,” he repeats. 

“Mor-gen,” she enunciates. 

“Guten Mor-gen, Broomhilda.” 

“Ja,” she beams, leans in for a kiss, “gut.” 

 

 

 

Hilde takes to this life better than he thought she would. She takes to the gun, the horse. She's not so scared anymore, with Candie and the rest behind her. 

And she thanks him every day for that, as if in the back of her mind she's afraid the charade will end and she'll be returned to the big house, the hotbox, the mandingo pen. 

Not if Django has anything to say of it. 

They have enough money to find somewhere to settle up north, or even west. They even have enough for her to dress in the finest Brocade, like the fraulien she should be and yet, she shakes her head that night, holds up her hands. 

“I think,” she says gently, “we should keep going.” 

“What do you mean?” he asks

“You're good at it, baby. We have to keep going. It wouldn't be right.” Her eyes sparkle in the campfire's light, eyes he's seen brimming with fear and sadness and loss. “So...” 

“So?” he asks. 

She looks down at her hands and smiles, “I want you to teach me.” 

He chuckles, pulls her a little closer under their blanket. “Lil' troublemaker.” 

“Your little troublemaker,” she says, and means it. He kisses her, fingers framing her chin, her collarbone. 

So even though he's always dreamed of her in silk, he puts the iron of his colt into her hand the next morning, and pulls her close to him. He buries his face in her hand, listens to her giggle as his nose tickles the back of her neck. 

“It's serious, Hilde,” he says, and lifts his hand to steady her wrist, “take a deep breath.” 

He feels her back lean further into his. She inhales, and pulls the trigger. 

It's a good first shot, he thinks to himself and when she turns to look at him her lips have curved into a little amused smile. Her eyes shine with determination.

“Try it again.”

She focuses back on her gun hand, and does. 

 

 

 

 

“Ich,” she says, pointing to herself in their sleeping bag. “Hard c. Ich.” 

“Ich,” he points to her, too. She turns his hand so it'll turn to face him. “Oh, like me.” 

“Ja,” she nods. 

“So what's you?” he asks. 

“Sie,” she says, “but it doesn't get used a lot.” 

“So what gets used instead?” He asks. “Like, if I wanted to say that I love you.” 

“It usually gets put into the verb,” she shrugs. “I love you is 'ich liebe dich.'” 

“Ich,” he sounds out, “le-be ditch.” 

She giggles. “Softer, Django. _Liebe. Dich._ ” 

“Ich liebe dich,” he says. 

“Libest du mich?” she turns and leans up on her forearm, looking down at him. He makes a noise, shakes his head. “Do you love me, Django?” 

“Oh,” he says, sort of thankful that there's only a little moonlight on the prairie tonight. “Ja.” 

“Gut. Kuss mich,” she orders. 

He smiles, and leans up to take her mouth. 

 

 

 

 

She spends her time mending King's clothes to fit her. He watches as he cleans the guns, sharpens the knives, oils the saddles. 

“I'll get you something nice when we get into town,” he says. 

“What kind of nice?” she drawls, lifts her eyes to watch him. She stands, walks up to Fritz, babies him, says something in German. Fritz whines, bumps his head against hers. She closes her eyes, nuzzles back. 

“Somethin' good, a surprise.” 

“You know how much I like surprises, Django,” She says. 

“This'll be a good one,” he assures. She deserves a good one. “I promise.” 

“I'll hold you to that.” 

 

 

 

 

She tucks her hair under the lip of Shultz's hat, points her toes in her new boots as they ride. Fritz trots back and forth, impatient but she pats his mane gently and cooes until he settles. 

“You're good with him,” he says. “Like he was always yours.” 

She looks up at him, looking so much like Shultz in his suit and gloves and hat. She says nothing, but finds it within herself to smile. 

 

 

 

 

Her first kill is just like his was all that time ago, the top of a ridge shooting down onto the prairie. The wind takes her first shot and kills a cow. 

“Shit, aw shit,” she says to herself, curling back down behind their rock, opening the barrel and stuffing the bullet in hasty. 

“Calm yo'self,” he hisses as she lines the poor bastard in her sights again. “He ain't goin' nowhere.”

She presses her lips together, and the barrel follows the man as he walks over to the cow. This time, she shoots the bastard right in the heart, and its definitely the right man. 

That night, they build a fire and eat better than they ever have before, better than Django can ever remember before this life, at least. 

 

 

 

 

“We coulda stayed in Mississippi,” she says, “or Kentucky. Tennessee. Gone up toward Virginia, maybe. I bet there's a lotta banks in Virginia.” 

“Lotta plantations in Virginia, Hilde. Lotta people who'd see this,” he points to the burnt-in 'R' on her cheek, the scar more obvious than his, “and think you were for the takin'.” 

“You have a point, I guess.” She takes that hand he's outstretched, fits her cheek into it. “I'm no one's but my own, and yours, maybe.” 

“Maybe?” he asks, leaning down to gather her up in his arms, the leather and burlap of his shirt against herringbone wool. 

“Maybe,” she smiles, kisses him, leans in and lets him lift her off the ground, until they're one cowboy lump between the horses as they rest for water. 

A breeze passes, his toes curl in his boots, and the sound of far off birds makes him...

“Wie sagt man 'I'm sorry'?” he grunts out. 

“Why?” she asks. 

“I just...I shouldn'tve waited,” he says. “Things would be different if I found you sooner.” 

“They would,” she nods. “We would be dead. Or worse.”

“But do you ever...” he shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't but--

“Did I ever what?” she asks, lazily. 

“Think about it, killing Candie?” he asks, rolling her over onto her back. 

Her eyes go a little flat at that name, a little sad. “Django, I think about it all the time. It's 'ich bedaure.'”

“Ich be-da-ure,” he repeats. 

“Ja. I regret,” she nods. “I regret lots of things. Not knowing how to kill, not running fast enough, Getting King killed...” 

“You don't have to think about it no more, baby,” he says, gently, runs his fingers over the cusp of her collar, itches to have her. 

They kiss again, slower than before, longer. She pulls back her jacket, undoes the lacing and buttons of her britches. 

It's odd to see her in these clothes, how much they don't fit her, how much they hide. He pushes his mouth against her exposed breast, brown skin seasoned well with sweat. 

“Baby,” she moans and wraps herself around him. “Slower, baby.” 

 

 

“You never gave me that surprise, y'know,” she says, the curl of her hair allowed out from under Shultz's hat because it's just them and the horses on the prairie, on the move. 

“Thought you woulda forgot about it, honest,” he teases. 

He pulls the knife from his saddle bag, wrapped in its holster, pulls along side her and hands it to her. “You deserve to have your own.” 

She pulls a hand off the reign, pats Fritz to coax him to a trot, and reaches for it. A brisk yank reveals the shine of metal, worked and polished. 

“Django,” she says. 

“I'm proud of you, Hilde,” he says, “real proud. Been proud of you for a real long time.” 

She wears her little quiet smile when it's just the two of them more often, now. Like she's content with this new life she's settling into, even when they have to pretend to be heartless, even when they have to kill. 

 

 

The next few weeks are whirlwind.

“I can kill him, Django,” she smiles, stands tall as they look at the poster. “I'll go to the bordello. He'll think I'm one of the girls.” 

“I don't like this,” he says. “How do you say 'I don't like this' in German?” 

“It's not the time,” she replies, bitter. “Everybody knows this guy likes hard trade, and you heard it yourself he liked...my kind.” 

Fuck, he wants to throw up. 

“It'll be easy,” she says. “Trust me.” 

“You won't be able to shoot him,” he says. “It's a whorehouse, we're not Shultz, you can't...” 

“But we could, Django,” his Hilde grins, takes his hands and squeezes hard. “We _could_.” 

Troublemaker, he thinks, no good for him even now. “We'll have to buy you a dress. And I want to stay close and...” 

She raises a hand to his hair, plays with the curl. He'll have to cut it back soon, before it can't fit under his hat anymore. He hates this idea, hates it, but they could make a name for themselves on this one. She'd be the stuff of legend just like him, taking down a man attacking the settler fringe towns while he's at his most basic. 

“Ich will immer mit dir zusammen sein,” she sighs with deep love in her voice and he has no idea what it means. 

“I love you,” he replies, blindly. “And I just don't want it to go wrong, Hilde, while you're out there by yourself.” 

“No matter how wrong it could go, it can't go as wrong as it's been before,” she shrugs, that sad look in her eyes again. “Don't you worry, Django. No matter what happens we'll be alright.” 

 

 

They get the local sheriff to forge King's signature on a letter to take to the tailor, and Django pulls out his blue velvet for the first time in almost a year. It's autumn now, as he walks Hilde into town on foot and orders the tailor to give them the finest silk on hand. 

It takes three excruciating days where they are dead man's property, but Hilde's dress is beautiful, and she immediately takes to wearing her knife in the bodice, under Shultz's jacket. 

His little troublemaker is gorgeous. 

 

 

In the end, it's incredibly easy. She bats her eyes, the jackass falls for her like every other man Broomhilda has given eyes to. He walks upstairs with her, mesmerized by swaying hips and her dry German accent. 

Django's come to love that accent.

He imagines the look on that sucker's face when she pulls out her bow knife, if it makes him harder or if he falls soft, if he thinks she's playing a game. Django is sitting in the bathroom off to the side, watching through a slit in the door. 

The guy's too shocked too struggle, but his blood's pumping hot and fast and when she...

She takes what she needs quick, but it's not clean. She wraps the body in the bed's duvet, leaves entirely too much money on the nightstand, throws the lump out the window. She wraps the useful parts in her skirt, blood all over the beautiful silk she's only worn once. She cleans her knife on the bodice, the corset bones scraping it clean. 

She's still the prettiest thing he's ever seen. 

 

She's still wearing the corset under the britches, the shirt of Shultz's old uniform. They ride hard and swift, the body dragged behind them. She leans down, effortlessly once they're back on the prarie, cuts the line from her saddle, turns with her hand on her hat and watches as it rolls and drags to a halt behind them. 

“What you deserved, poor bastard,” she mutters. 

“And what about you?” Django asks. “What do you deserve?” 

She whips back around to him, “a long bath and some time alone with you, partner.” 

He laughs, and supposes that's about right. 

 

The blood has dried on her face and chest when they finally stop for the night. There's a swimming hole up the way, but it's already cold so it's best to build a fire and eat. It's been a hard day's ride, and a hard night's work. 

He undresses her after dinner, throws King's jacket, and hat, and shirt off into the dirt as he crawls to her, on top of her, leans his body down on top of hers. 

“C'mon,” she says, “big troublemaker. Gimmie my reward.” 

“You're just as big a troublemaker as I am, nowadays,” he comments before taking her mouth. “Not that I can't complain.” 

“I keep you rich,” she teases. 

“You keep me more than that,” he says between his kisses, and licks into her mouth. He's careful to kiss around the blood flecking her skin, drag his mouth over her stomach as he slowly undoes her corset. 

He drops his hands to her britches. She arches up, and he pulls her pants clean off her slim legs, only pausing for her boots. He takes off his shirt, relishes the skin to skin and relearns the warmth of her thighs as they wrap around his shoulders. He bends down, licks at the crease of her thigh and hip, close to what she wants. 

“Please,” she groans, but his mouth takes his time finding his way to her, remapping her as they lay there in the prairie dirt. He looks up, the fire beside them giving easy light to her skin, the rounds of her hips and breasts and the gentle round of her stomach, too. She tastes spicy and sweet, her hands reaching down into his hair, grabbing until he's up on her again. 

“Yes?” he asks. 

“Take those pants off, cowboy,” she purrs. “I wanna see your pistol.” 

He laughs, undoes his belt and shimmies his pants to his legs. He's hard, but doesn't feel strongly about being so urgent this time. No, they've done well for themselves today and deserve a long indulgent spar.

Her legs twine around his hips, and he pushes into her, finds her warm and waiting and wet, so wet for him. “C'mon, yeah.” 

And there's that urgency he'd been missing. 

“Wenden?” she asks, and he almost marvels at the fact that she can ask in German before he realizes he knows exactly what she's asking for, rolls over, takes her with him until she's on top. 

“Gut?” he asks.

She settles, breathlessly on top of him, around him, and nods. And like this, covered in the blood of their latest bounty, the markings of the corset still impressed upon her flesh, she looks upon him like a queen, a mistress, some otherworldly woman with all the time in the world to rest upon him. 

Her thighs have shorn up from hours upon days of riding, and she rises and lowers herself like it's nothing, an effortless movement that drags every part of her along him from root to tip. He can't help but sigh, reach up for her and kiss her again, run his fingers through her hair he's so in love with her at this moment, amazed. 

“C'mon,” she says, playfully. “Buck back.” 

He lies down again in the dirt, picks his hands up and knows he's leaving prairie soil on her hips but he grabs for her anyway, hands molding against the bone. He thrusts into her, puts himself into it and she whimpers when they first line up. 

“Yeah,” he hisses. “Yeah Hilde.” 

She stays quiet, anchors her hands against his shoulders and pushes back, back, the two of them lost in each other. “Fuck.” 

They roll over again, kicking up dirt and embers. He holds her close, finishes her off until she's biting her lip and clenching onto him with her whole body. She's shivering with it as she finally leans back down. 

It takes two more hard thrusts to come, and he groans deep and low with it, rolls his hips inside her and feels as the wetness becomes too much to bear. He pulls away, leans back into the dirt. She lays where she is, rolls her hips back and reaches for herself, dips two fingers inside. 

She smiles at him, in fire's light, and makes him watch her come again. 

 

 

“I think it sounds good,” she says as she washes the stains from her shirt, hitting it against the rock with some force. “The two of us are 'dangerous.'” 

“That's not always a good thing to be,” he reminds her, but she smiles and shrugs. 

“I suppose we could settle down. You could work on your German, I could raise some kids,” she shrugs. “But don't you like this life?”

“It's not for our color,” he says. 

“Hmm,” she says. “I bet we could change that.” 

 

 

 

It's winter, and they've danced into Mexico once or twice but found that it's even hard to consider settling down, now. They've been bit. 

So they're in Wyoming again, Hilde wrapped in Shultz's clothes in the back of a carriage they picked up as Fritz became a little too old to run. 

Couriers bring news of a rumbling division between the north and the south, whispers of something like splitting the land down the middle, but Django finds himself unimpressed. The townsfolk all still think he and Hilde are inferior, they'll never stop, but they shut up when he turns and tells her to shoot the messenger in German. 

Poor honky had a three hundred dollar bounty on his head. 

“Your accent's getting good, baby,” she says as she crouches down, holds the picture up to the guy's face. “Ja, das ist er.” 

“Gut. Pretty soon you'll be able to do this all yourself, troublemaker,” he smirks as he waits for the Sheriff to come. 

“Nein,” she stands, walks to him. “I like havin' you around too much to do it on my own.” 

“Oh, libest du mich?” he asks, putting an arm around her waist as the sheriff sighs and reticently stares at the dead man's face and the flesh surrounding Hilde's bullet. 

She turns, nods firmly. “Like nothing else in the world, Django.” 

He smiles, and finds himself thankful that it has lasted this long.  


**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any errors in the German text.


End file.
